BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books
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Authors: Kristina Blake
Copyright © 2016
All Rights Reserved
. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
ANA
My life is in danger, so really, the last thing I need to be doing is checking out some stranger in a bar.
But I’m not in
immediate
danger anymore, so far as I can tell. No,
my
kind of danger has evolved into the slow-burning, forget-about-it-momentarily kind of danger, and the man on the other end of the bar is making it so easy to forget.
I sink back into my stool, grasping a stein that dwarfs my pale, slender hand, and I watch the man with intertwined feelings of curiosity and fascination. Between us, the molten gold of my undrunk beer acts as a sort of partition, barring me from his view. Swimming in its depths I can see every stark feature that drew my attention to him in the first place. It's a little like enjoying a television program, only better—there's an added danger to playing the voyeur when your subject could glance up and notice you at any moment.
Judging by the easy height he achieves sitting at the bar, he is taller than any of the other male patrons. His posture isn't bad, either; I'm surprised to find. As a general rule of these sorts of establishments, people seem to sink up to their elbows in the bar top, myself included. He rests his elbows on the bar, but the suppleness of his posture appears natural. I think I know why.
On the barstool beside him rests a black helmet with an impenetrable visor. The man is sheathed in black leather gear. There's a motorcycle parked on the curb outside, a sleek obsidian-and-silver creature that almost looks more animal than machine. This man is a biker, a
real
one—not just some midlife crisis in a do-rag trying to rediscover himself on the road.
I know danger, and he is it. But he isn't the danger that's after me.
As I watch him, I feel strangely comforted to know that he exists in this world—a destructive, shadowy elemental, and one that wants nothing to do with me. It looks like he wants nothing to do with anyone in the bar. He stares deeply into his drink—a whiskey, I think, served on the rocks—absorbed in his own thoughts. I pick my stein up and lower it until my eyes are at the level of the rim.
His features are chiseled, sharp and cunning; he wears a slightly hungry look, almost wolfish. His dark hair is windswept, though cropped short, and his sideburns are thick and straight; they trail down to a coarse stubble that shades his jaw and upper lip. He's absolutely magnetic, but no one else seems to be looking or experiencing the same pull. Maybe he's a regular here.
Then again, my own interest may also be due to the fact that I'm the only woman in the bar. Practically every pair of eyes upon entering was immediately drawn toward me. I wish I had noticed the man sooner—then I would have known if he had looked as well. I would have liked it if he did.
But I shouldn't be craving the attention of a stranger. In my old life, I would have blushed and stammered if I had been approached at the bar, and likely made some excuse to close out and leave. Nothing good ever came of getting mixed up with me, and plenty of well-intentioned men had learned that the hard way. Maybe that was where the longing came from now.
I slip down off the bar stool and make my way back to the restroom. One perk of being the only woman in the establishment is that I don't have to wait in line. I push open the door and cross to the sinks lined along the wall. I twist the tap on, splash my face with cold water, and look up.
I'll never get used to the red hair. It hangs, warm and wavy, around my thin face, bringing out a rosy color in my cheeks that I wasn't certain I still possessed. It suits me better, I think, than my natural blond—or at least, it would if I had washed and dragged a brush through it in the last day. I look weary from traveling, and there are dark circles beneath my blue eyes. I wish I had a bit of makeup to take the edge off my look of fatigue. I try not to think that my desire has roots in the handsome stranger sitting at the bar. Unfortunately, makeup has become a nonessential in recent days. I travel much lighter without it.
I leave the bathroom feeling only slightly refreshed and make my way back to my stool. Maybe I really will have a drink. I had purchased the beer only because I needed a place to rest without looking out of place as I waited for my next bus.
I glance up to find the biker sitting in my seat.
I stop dead in my tracks.
It takes a moment for the situation to fully register. I find it almost easier to believe that the bathroom somehow mysteriously let me out on the other end of the bar, but I know this can't be true. No, the stranger is
definitely
sitting in my seat. As if sensing my return, he revolves around to face me. He doesn't smile, but I notice a slight twinkle in his dark eye. I thaw quickly and approach the bar, blushing all the while. My duffle bag is stashed just below his boots.
"Excuse me," I demure. "I'll move."
As much as I despise not standing up for myself, I want to avoid a confrontation. I notice that the man appears to have placed a coaster atop my beer, but the meaning of this escapes me. I reach for it, but the move brings me in close. A gloved hand snakes forward, the slick material creaking as he seizes my wrist. I freeze again.
"That so?" the stranger asks me with a raised eyebrow. "Just like that?"
"Yes." I try to keep my voice even, but strong, as I concede defeat. "Just like that."
"You don't have to go far." He indicates the stool beside him with his free hand. He still holds me prisoner with the other. "Why don't you have a seat next to me?"
While this might have once been a tempting proposition, I find that I very much want to be alone again. His dark gaze at such a close proximity is almost enough to make me tremble, but it isn't malicious. Guarded, maybe.
As much as I would like to tell him to hit the road—or even better, hit the road myself—I can't risk straying far from my luggage. Everything worth taking with me—and the essentials I need to survive—are in that bag, so I sit down beside him as advised. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice one of the pool players skulking about in the shadows with his gaze on us. His behavior is enough to drag my attention away from my new seatmate momentarily.
The stranger lets go of my hand.
"Seems like someone other than me wanted to get better acquainted with you," he says conversationally as he plucks the coaster off my beer. "And wanted to get acquainted fast, if you catch my meaning. I saw him hanging around over here with a little clear capsule full of little white pills."
"What?"
I gaze in horror at my drink. The carbonation continues to fizz up from the bottom, and the creamy head of foam looks undisturbed. But how can I be sure it wasn't drugged?
"I told him to fuck off," the man beside me continues, undisturbed by my look. "But you need to be more careful." He starts to slide down off the stool, but I quickly reach out to stop him from leaving. In the immediate aftermath, I'm not sure why. His eyebrows pull together as he considers my hand on the inside elbow of his jacket.
"Should I…order another beer?" I feel like an idiot for asking, but I can't risk any missteps at this point.
The man shrugs. "If you're really worried about it…" He flexes one gloved finger and signals the bartender for another round. "Allow me."
I blush. "No," I reply quickly. "I'm sorry. That's not what I meant. I wasn't trying to get you to buy me a drink."
"You were sure staring at me like you wanted me to." The man sounds amused. I snatch my hand away, face burning in earnest now.
"I wasn't staring!" I protest. His words from earlier come back to me suddenly:
seems like someone other than me wanted to get better acquainted with you.
My eyes narrow by degrees as I unpack the full meaning of his words.
"And anyway," I continue as the bartender plunks another stein down in front of me. "If you didn't want to be stared at, maybe you shouldn't dress so damn conspicuously." I lower my gaze to indicate all the leather, and his eyes follow my lead.
"You're right," he reflects after a moment. "I should put in less effort. Appearance isn't everything.
You're
certainly not concerned about it. Do you usually roll out of bed and head straight to the dives?" He turns back to the bar to take up his whiskey. "I envy your life."
I bristle slightly at his words, but I'm far from beaten. I turn gamely in my stool to face him and unwrap a finger from around the handle of my glass to point at him. "First of all, you
definitely
don't envy my life," I correct him. "And if you must know, I thought you looked familiar to me. That's all."
I bite my lip following the admission. I hadn't realized it until the words were out of my mouth, but it's true. He
does
look familiar, although I'm certain our paths have never crossed before.
"Interesting," comes the response, and suddenly I'm even more intrigued than I was before. The man takes a sip of his drink; I watch as his throat works, and the ice butts up against his lips. But I can't allow myself to be distracted now. He's all but confirmed for me by his nonchalance that I'm on the right track. I cross my arms and settle one long leg over the other, jogging my ankle beneath the bar.
"So what are you?" I press. "Some disenfranchised Calvin Klein model? A child celebrity all grown up with an axe to grind against society?"
"What makes you think I'm not a criminal?" he replies evenly. My ankle freezes. "Take a look around you." He nods, indicating the rest of the bar. "You're not exactly on the nice side of town, sweetheart."
"Ana." My correction comes automatically. The name, like the red hair, suits me, but I'm still getting used to it. It tastes truncated, maybe even a little exotic, on the tip of my tongue. The man raises his eyes to look at me, and I take a quick sip of my beer to disguise my expression. I'm not sure he believes me, so I carry on quickly. "I'm Ana. I'd prefer it if you called me by my name."
"That's not your name." His intuition startles me, and I sit back. "Any more than 'sweetheart' is. But I'll bite. Flint."
"Flint," I repeat. A helpless smile tugs at the corner of my lips. I can't be sure it's his real name, either, but it suits him so well. Sharp-edged and black and unforgiving. "Well, whoever you are…thank you. You stuck your neck out for me when you didn't have to."
The bell above the front door jingles, signaling the entrance of another patron. Flint doesn't take his eyes from me, as if no one from the outside world could possibly hold his interest, but my own gaze slides past him. My eyes widen at what I see, and my heart—which had been beating erratically ever since Flint wandered over—seems to freeze all operations within my chest.
It's not that I know the men who enter the bar personally—and yes, it wasn't just a single patron who entered now, but several. Four men, to be precise, dressed in dark clothes, all of them far too muscular and unofficial-looking to fill out their suits properly. Their clothes seem to bulge and strain with each swaggered step, as if they are wearing poorly-fitted costumes and not anything tailor made for their foreboding musculatures.
The bar room falls silent at the sight of these male specimens. I am sitting behind Flint at the bar, and I realize his own towering frame, though not as bulky as that of the men, shields me from their view. I have only seconds to act, if it isn’t too late already. I notice Flint's eyes start to slide from me to follow the direction of my gaze, and I quickly switch my gaze back over to him.
"Well, it was very nice to meet you Flint," I say hastily. I slide down from the stool and bend beneath the bar to snatch my satchel out from between his legs. When I straighten, I see that he is going for an amused look, but I can tell he is perplexed by my sudden intention to depart. I regret it as well, though I can't let it show on my face. There are more important things in life than chatting up a dark and gorgeous stranger at the bar, like continuing to succeed in escaping the life I swore to myself I would leave behind.
"Just like that? You're not even going to finish your beer?" His deep-chested voice makes me tremor a little. I would like to hear it more, but I'm out of time. I nod my head in recognition of his subtle invitation to take back my abrupt exit, and I feel my mouth pull down in disappointment.
But there's no time to lose. The men are drawing closer, and it's only a matter of time before one of them spots me. I imagine I can almost feel the weight of their identical glances behind their dark glasses dragging the sea of bar patrons, trying to dredge me up. I shoulder my bag and turn. I start heading back toward the hallway and the bathrooms. I'm not sure that there is an exit out that way, but I pray to God there is.
Damn it, why didn't I inspect my premises before when I was back there?
I could have saved myself time and a lot of hassle. If I got caught trying to escape now, it would be my fault for letting a stranger clad in leather distract my every self-preserving faculty.
There is a window in the bathroom. I remember that much. I am slight enough that I think I can fit, though it's going to take some scrambling. I might have to leave my bag behind.
Shit, I left my credit card behind me back at the bar.
All of these thoughts pass through my head in a jumble. I've barely made it half a step before I feel a hand clamp down on my arm. My heart leaps out of my chest and lodges in my throat. Where it was paralyzed before, it now beats double, maybe even triple time. I wheel, and in my alarm, I drop my bag.